


You've got my heart drawn taut

by Authumnder



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29734158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authumnder/pseuds/Authumnder
Summary: The banner won’t fully fold,fuck, and now readsLightUpMy Night At Prom?which is still coherent enough to be comprehended. Brady wants to die. Brady wants the ground to open up and swallow both him and his tacky sign wholly and keep them there forever.(Or, Brady screws up a promposal and Tim gets the short end of the stick.)
Relationships: Tim Stützle/Brady Tkachuk
Comments: 16
Kudos: 123





	You've got my heart drawn taut

Most articles on how to ask someone to prom— _31 Creative Ways to Ask A Girl to Prom You Should Totally Steal, 12 Ways to Do Promposals Right,_ and _20 Promposal Ideas That Will Guarantee You A ‘YES’_ among whopping 922,000 results on Google search—include some bland motivational tips in them, you know, typical bullshit like _be creative, courageous, earnest,_ blah-diddy-blah-blah, Brady’s eyes glazed just reading over them, yet fail to mention the one important thing they totally should’ve mentioned: _Be smart_ enough _to get the right address of the person you’re proposing to._

Because opening the door to the house of Brady’s supposedly special someone Sylvia Baker is neither Sylvia Baker herself nor her parents—of whom Brady knew the faces of, and this lady with a palm to her mouth covering her delight is definitely _none_ of them.

...whoops?

“Oh, how adorable!” she exclaims, smiling so wide at Brady she’d probably mortify him if he wasn’t, like, already mortified beyond expression. Then, before Brady could even _think_ of reacting, she yells into the house, “Tim! Timmy! Look who’s here for you!”

_Shit fucking shit shit shit._

Brady’s hands holding up the starry _Will U Light Up My Night At Prom?_ sign slowly lower themselves to the ground. He contemplates fleeing, just turn around and run like hell, but he refuses to be a coward about this. Plus, the grinning lady seems a little familiar, now that he thinks about it. Not familiar enough he can put a name to her, but. Familiar. And she knows his face now, so she can hunt him down easily.

“Tim!” she yells some more, and this time there’s an answering _Coming!_ from inside.

It’s a dude’s voice. Obviously Tim’s a dude. Brady starts folding the banner frantically, doesn’t actually know how that is going to help him—it’s not like the lady hasn’t already read it, and she sure as hell doesn’t look like she’d mind reciting the message to Tim, who’s reached the door and is now staring confusedly at Brady.

The banner won’t fully fold, _fuck_ , and now reads _Light_ _Up_ _My Night At Prom?_ which is still coherent enough to be comprehended. Brady wants to die. Brady wants the ground to open up and swallow both him and his tacky sign wholly and keep them there forever.

“I’ll leave you two to it!” Tim’s mom says cheerfully, oblivious to Brady’s desire to shoot himself on the leg and, Brady’s guessing, Tim’s absolute bafflement to what the fuck is currently going on. She closes the door behind her, though, which is a small mercy. Or, not _mercy_ , exactly, because Tim’s still standing in front of him with a worryingly deep frown and Brady’s still clutching onto his stupid banner, and this wasn’t at all how he pictured his promposal—oh god he’s had enough of this word—to go.

Brady gives up on trying to roll the sign. It’s no need, Tim’s most probably already got it memorised, unless he’s dyslexic or an exceedingly slow reader, that is.

“Uh,” he starts, wincing, knowing whatever he’s going to spout off will be dumb as fuck, “this isn’t the Bakers residence?”

 _Well, duh_ , of fucking course it wasn’t. He wouldn’t be a step away from dying of humiliation otherwise.

Fortunately Tim’s nice enough a kid he didn’t point that out, just shakes his head and point to the right. “The Bakers’ is two houses from here,” he says. He looks like he’s suppressing a laugh though, which is not very nice of him; nevermind that, were their positions reversed, Brady would be on the floor cackling the fuck up right now.

Brady scratches at his forehead. “The houses are... very similar,” he comments lamely.

“Uh, not really...” Tim replies, and proceeds to tell Brady how diverse and contrasting these suburban houses are, which would sound snotty and conceited as hell if not for the fact that the houses, on second glance, do _actually_ look entirely different from each other.

“Please stop humiliating me,” Brady cuts Tim’s explanation of paint colors and mailbox placements, pitifully looking up at the darkening sky. “I’ve already humiliated myself enough.”

Tim bursts out laughing.

Brady lets him have at it, at first, because dude’s probably been holding that in since he read _Light_ _Up_ _My Night At Prom?_ earlier, but after a full minute went by and he’s still wheezing, well—

“You’re not very nice,” Brady accuses. 

“And you’re so dumb,” Tim says, and cackles even more.

“Not _nice_ ,” Brady repeats.

“ _So dumb_ ,” Tim shoots back. He is biting his lips to stop himself from laughing, Brady notices, doesn’t really get why he does. He glances away, and catches Tim’s mom spying on them from the window.

“Your mom’s spying on us,” he says, low, as he awkwardly waves at her. She gives him a thumbs-up and another wide grin before drawing the curtain.

Tim groans. “Billet mom,” he corrects. “And it’s totally your own fault.”

“I know,” Brady groans back. “Wait, you play hockey?” Ha. That’s why Tim’s billet mom seems familiar then, Brady’s probably seen her around.

Tim nods. “I’m trying out for the school team next season,”

“You any good?”

“I do fine,” Tim says, shrugging, then, “Better than you, probably.”

“Hey,” Brady says, indignant, doesn’t ask, _oh you watched me play?_ because that’d be weird. “Just because I accidentally asked you to prom doesn’t mean you can freely insult me.”

Tim sits down on the front porch steps then, motioning Brady to do the same. Brady does, consciously giving a few inches between them, which is weird, because generally Brady isn’t a conscious person. Just ask his mom. Or anyone who knows him, for that matter. Maybe it’s because Tim’s practically a stranger—what even is his last name?—Brady reasons. People act strange around strangers all the time, don’t they? 

Whatever. Brady’s pointedly not thinking about it.

“You’re not gonna get Sylvia Baker to go to prom with you,” Tim’s saying, Brady tuning in just in time to pretend to be insulted by the words.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because,” Tim says patiently, “Drake Batherson already asked her, and she said yes.”

O...kay. That’s news to him. “Drake Batherson, you say? I’m gonna fight him,”

Tim rolls his eyes—Brady’s _so insulted,_ the audacity of this kid. And Drake Batherson. Brady’s gonna fight both of them. “Sylvia still won’t say yes to you,” Tim says. “Batherson actually did like, a _grand gesture_ when he asked her.”

Brady yelps. “I can do a _grand gesture_!”

“No you can’t,” Tim replies. “Your attempt at grand gesture is literally a lame sign.”

“Fuck you, my sign isn’t lame,” Brady says, curling his arm protectively around said sign, even if it’s kind of true. Whatever, he’s not going down that easy.

Tim raises an eyebrow. “I bet you found it via googling ‘promposal ideas,’”

Tim’s not wrong, and judging from his lopsided smirk, he knows that damn well too.

“Don’t say that word to me,” Brady mumbles in an attempt to change the subject, because he hates losing and is a sore loser, massaging his temples. “That word is banned forever.”

“Promposal?” Tim says and, when Brady groans, adds, “ _Promposal promposal promposal promposal_ —”

“I’ll deck you,” Brady threatens, “I won’t hesitate.”

“You can’t deck your own prom date,” Tim says, and he probably means that jokingly, but the silence that follows is suddenly stilted and uncomfortable.

Brady should go. What the fuck is he even doing here? He went to the wrong house—he could’ve apologized, explained the situation, and begged the fuck off, easy. Instead he’s—what? Loitering to chat?

“Err, I didn’t mean you have to, like, actually go with _me_ ,” Tim’s explaining, obviously backpedaling. And this time it’s him scratching awkwardly at his forehead. “It was just—joke.”

“Uh, yeah,” Brady says, doesn’t know where to go from there. He’s about to stand and go, _you know what, I think I’ll just leave, this has been fun, please don’t tell anyone at school, thanks,_ when the door flies open and bursting from it is none else but Tim’s billet mom with a camera on hand.

“Really sorry to bother you, but—a picture, please? If you don’t mind, of course,” she says politely, but doesn’t wait for a response before arranging Brady and Tim’s positions to her liking. “Brandon, is it? Spread the sign for me, would you?”

“It’s Brady,” Brady says, helpless, doesn’t have a choice but to unroll the (fine, he’ll admit) lame sign.

“Oh, don’t be shy, you two! Stand closer!” she tells them. “I’m just so happy for you, and obviously this kind of occassion needs to be properly documented, so you can look back to this moment someday!”

Brady wants to say the only thing being immortalized right now is his capital-H Humiliation, closes his mouth at last minute instead, because that sounds—bad, even in his head.

At this point, Brady’s pretty sure she’s snapped about two dozens pictures, which is two-dozens-minus-one pictures more than ‘properly documented’ warrants, but she does look very happy and Brady doesn’t want to like, burst her bubble or something along that line. Even if his cheeks start to hurt from smiling unnaturally widely for the camera.

“Okay I’m done,” she exclaims three other awkward poses later, thank fucking god, “I’ll get out of your hair now.”

They sit back down again, commiserating, a few inches in between forgotten.

“I’ll hurt her feelings if I don’t actually take you to prom now, won’t I?” Brady asks after a moment, sighing.

“I mean, I can explain to her?” Tim offers, but he doesn’t sound particularly thrilled about it either. Brady can imagine. “She’s not—she’s, uh, rational.”

“I’ll _hurt_ her _feelings_ ,” Brady repeats with, like, emphasis this time.

Tim’s sigh is answer enough.

Brady turns to him and says seriously, “Now we’ve got to get matching tuxes.”

Tim winces at him. “Do we _absolutely_ have to?”

Brady punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Yeah man, we do _absolutely_ have to,” he copies Tim’s voice, and gets punched back in return.

It’s quiet for a moment, although this time the silence doesn’t feel forced or unnatural, just. Companionable. Brady manages to spend that whole minute unintentionally staring at Tim’s side profile; the slope of his nose, his square jaw, his mouth. Dude’s got funny smile, inviting, but kind of cute in a way. You can’t help but smile back when he directs one at you. Tim’s directing one at him right now, and Brady—

Brady _really_ should go.

“So,” he begins to say, looking away, because somewhat staring feels too loaded now that Tim’s staring back. He meant to continue that with, _I guess I should go,_ but what comes out of his mouth is: “I guess we should exchange phone numbers?”

*

Turns out their lockers are pretty close—Tim’s last name is apparently _S_ tützle, Brady discovers via text messaging, they’ve been doing that these last few days, and his is _T_ kachuk, so, chronological—which Brady finds out on Thursday before first period.

He saunters over. “Hey,” he says, leaning into the locker next to Tim’s.

Tim grunts something unintelligible back, too busy shoving his textbooks into his backpack.

“You free Friday night?” Brady powers through.

Tim finally looks at him. “Uh, yes.” He says. “Why?”

“Good!” Brady says. “You’re invited to dinner in casa de Tkachuk.”

Tim frowns, closing the door to his locker. “Invited by _who_?”

“My mom, duh,” Brady replies, say it like _who the fuck else?_ “So, you coming?”

Tim’s still frowning. “I don’t even know where you live,”

“I’ll come pick you up,” Brady says, easy. The bell rings then. “So. See you on Friday?”

“Sure. See you on Friday,” Tim parrots back, smiling a little hesitantly, though it grows into a real one when Brady grins at him.


End file.
